


Your name is Freya

by Night_Faye



Series: Your name is [4]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: (Somewhat Freya/Merlin), Are my headcanons a bit crazy? Maybe, Freya Vignettes, Freya's backstory as I imagine it, Freya-centric, Gen, Magic Destiny Bullshit, The writing style still persists, still very self indulgent, this entire series is but you probably knew that by now
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-18
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-14 13:22:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29543013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Night_Faye/pseuds/Night_Faye
Summary: Your name is Freya, and this is your story.
Series: Your name is [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2165268
Kudos: 6





	Your name is Freya

You’re born in a small cottage, nestled within a small village, as leaves fall, and the fiery colors of autumn blanket the ground, and the wind teases at the waters of a beautiful lake, hints at the chaos that will come with winter.  
  


You're born to a mother who has already lost two daughters.  
  


You are born to a mother who sent one away to learn, surrounded by her kind. A mother who left the other to keep her safe.  
  


The only connection you share with your sisters is her blood, and her love. The love of a mother who had loved two men, and been coerced by a third, before she meets the man who would raise you as his own. A druid settled for love.  
  


Your father is still in a kingdom that despises your mother’s daughters, save for the one the King himself has sired. Despises your mother herself. It is why she left, hidden under the guise of an illness.  
  


Your father raises your sister, the unknown princess, for another three years, before he is betrayed by the king.  
  


You will not know any of this.  
  


But you are named Freya, for the status you should bare, had it not been for the actions of a man too cowardly to admit his own mistakes.

* * *

You grow up, with grass and wildflowers between your toes in the summer, and drenched hair from the lake, which makes your mother joke that you practically live in it.  
  


You grow up, with snow coating your eyelashes, bundled up in the warmest things you can find, and watch the winds whip the waves of the lake so high, it almost seems it will crash down on the houses of your small village.  
  


Your father in all but blood gives you a druidic mark on the fifth anniversary of your birth. He tells you of all his wanderings, the great sights he’s seen, and the people he has met.  
  


It is your dream to walk in his footsteps, to see the sights he’s seen, and meet the children of the people he’s met. A legacy carried on wards through time.

* * *

Two years later, your village is raided by vicious bandits, and you have no time for goodbyes. Your mother and father tell you to _run_ , so you do.  
  


You run, and you throw yourself into the lake, and you hold your breath for as long as you can underneath the gentle, autumn waves. Water dark from the shadows cast by the mountains that tower above everything else. Before lack of air forces you to come up, under the dock, and breathe in deeply and quietly.  
  


The sounds are muffled, with how far away you are, and with the wood of the dock above you and the water below and around you, but you still hear the screams.  
  


Your face is wet.  
  


It isn’t all lake water.

* * *

When the world is silent, again, and the thunderous sound of hooves against dirt has long faded, you let go of one of the posts and swim out from under the dock, haul yourself up, fingers digging into the muddy bank and grabbing at sturdy stalks of grass.  
  


Your long, dark hair clings to your pale, shaking body as you see the destruction of your home. Houses burnt, crops stolen or torn asunder, live stock either dead, missing, or free from their stables, still alert for danger.  
  


And the people…  
  


You see the faces of the women who taught you to mend, to cook, to weave, to dance and to sing.  
  


You see the faces of the men who taught you to wield a sword, because if you were to travel you had to protect yourself, how to put your entire weight into freeing yourself from the grips of those who would hurt you, and who would gladly accept your assistance in their forges and their workshops.  
  


The faces of the children you grew up with.  
  


You shakily stand, and you _run_.

* * *

You run, and you _don’t stop_. Not until four years later.  
  


Not until you meet someone who shares your past, and your sorrow for a home you’ll never get back.  
  


He’s kind, and funny, and takes you under his wing, treats you like you imagine a brother would.  
  


He loves the water just as much as you do, and he jokes that you should make a name for yourselves. ‘ _Lancelot and Freya Du Lac.’  
  
_

You _grin,_ because it reminds you of how your mother would say the lake was almost more your home than the village. You have no idea that you would be the second daughter of your mother’s that he has called sister. Neither does he.  
  


A funny thing, fate can be, and the games it plays with the threads it weaves.

* * *

But he isn’t with you all the time. He doesn’t want you inside the pubs while he’s getting work, doesn’t like the people in there being anywhere near you.  
  


But in one town, two years after you first meet, it’s the people outside that are more the worry.  
  


You kill a man with magic you didn’t even know you had, and you can’t bear the idea of how Lancelot’s face would look, so you do the thing you know how to do best.  
  


You _run_.

* * *

You can’t outrun the man’s mother, though.

* * *

And though you try for two years, you can’t outrun people betraying you, either.  
  


You wish you’d never left Lancelot’s side.  
  


You realize now, his face, if it even was disappointed, would be far better than this cage.

* * *

But you meet a boy, who is kind, and whose eyes remind you of the lake you grew up in, and whose smiles are gentle and sweet.  
  


He hides you away, and he makes you feel special, loved, _safe_.  
  


And he can’t make strawberries, but he tries, for _you_. It’s a warmth like wildflowers and light. Like _heaven_.

* * *

But running is ingrained so deeply into your bones, by now.  
  


You are more tragedy than girl.

* * *

You wear your sisters dress, but you don’t know it, and the boy brings you to a lake, with wildflowers and mountains.  
  


You tell him he saved you, because he _did_. He gave you back the feeling of love that you have lost twice, now.  
  


You promise to repay him, and you feel threads of destiny weave themselves into your soul.

* * *

You always go back to lakes. They were more your soul’s home than your body’s.  
  


And you help the boy you love in all the ways you can.  
  


You are the only one of your mother’s daughters who still do.  
  


The one who is of the blessed isles lets anger corrupt her.  
  


The one who is of Pendragon blood lets fear govern her.  
  


And you, the one who is of the lake, let love guide you.

* * *

And then, years later, you feel destiny snap taught around you, and suddenly your knees are pressed against the shore of your lake, and your fingers dig into the mud beneath you.  
  


Your long, dark hair sticks to your pale, shaking body, and you lift your head up to see a woman, with the saddest eyes you’ve ever seen, dressed all in black.  
  


She holds a hand out to you, and says in a voice beyond time. “You have done your duty, young one. Albion is come again, and Emrys has paid with his own blood more than the debt owed to close the veil.”  
  


You know, deep down, exactly what she means. Exactly _who_ she means.  
  


Emrys, Merlin, The boy you love. He is magic itself.  
  


Right down to his very blood.  
  


You take her hand, and she pulls you to your feet, before fading away.  
  


As if she were a morning dew in an afternoons sun.  
  


Your face is wet.  
  


The water from the lake had dried the moment your skin touched hers.  
  


Your lips taste of salt.  
  


And you _run_.

* * *

This time, you finally, _finally_ , run _towards_ something.

* * *

And when you reach the boy you love, he is surrounded by faces. Those you do not recognize.  
  


And those you do. The boy you love, the man who killed you to protect his people, and the boy who became your brother.  
  


But it’s Merlin that sees you first, and he seems so heartbroken, but there is _hope_ in his eyes, the hope that saved you in those tunnels.  
  


You hug him tightly, let his warmth envelope you.  
  


And when he introduces you, you cut in, with a soft smile towards Lancelot, with “-Du Lac, I’m Freya Du Lac.”  
  


And he _Grins_ , catches on, says oh so proudly. “My little sister.”  
  


It’s as if no time at all has passed, and you grab his hand and _squeeze_.

* * *

It takes no time at all for you to be folded into the everyday motions of those that Merlin loves.  
  


It’s a puzzle, really.  
  


Wisdom, Courage, Kindness, Honor, Strength, Nobility, Gentleness, Boldness, and Magic.  
  


A round table of the kingdoms virtues.  
  


They all make room, gladly, for Sincerity.

* * *

And when there is a chance, you hold your hand out to the woman you finally know to be your sister.  
  


There is, after all, nothing left to fear.  
  


You let yourself be guided by love.


End file.
